


Wake not the Woods with Your Bay

by imorca



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, direwolf, hand of the queen, post targeryan restoration au, warden of the north
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:33:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 5,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9575963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imorca/pseuds/imorca
Summary: If ye kill before midnight be silent and wake not the woods with your bay. They had not then been killers. Killers they had become. He would restore her heart to her, and perhaps regain his own.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title and excerpts in the summary are from "The Law for the Wolves" by Rudyard Kipling. _Game of Thrones_ is copyrighted to George RR Martin, HBO, et al. No infringement intended. Transformed for entertainment as cultural fair use.

Varys didn't usually ask questions, but the old bugger didn't need to. He was as sharp as Valyrian steel, and as soon as Tyrion made the request he was sure Varys knew why and had tucked it away for some future time.

Silence would be the best recourse, but Tyrion hated it so. If he didn't have his words, he had just about nothing. Because no matter how big the brain, you moved nothing without words. "Words are wind?" Bah. Words were mountains, and oceans, and even dragon's fire.

_Dracarys!_

There was no Lannister gold left to pay with. Thank the old gawds and the new that he was no longer a Lannister. He had earned this dip into the queen's treasury. The seam of justice that ran deep in her would have provoked her to make the request herself. He was of all certainty.

"The little birds will take to the wing and find her for you." Varys' smile was composed.

Tyrion hummed in response, and continued to gaze over the ramparts at the ugly crater where the great sept used to stand.

Varys began to move away in his odd, floating manner. Then he turned. "But...if she has what you want...men _will_ die."

Oh, yes. Varys was clever.


	2. Lie Down 'til the Leaders Have Spoken

" _Four men_ , my Lord Hand."

"Four _traitors_."

Queen Daenerys' stare remained hard.

He tried again. "Four criminals!"

He _should_ have expected this interrogation. Why didn't he plan for it?

Once more. "Four men who... had a choice between the gallows and the hunt."

The Mother of Dragons twitched her brow and turned her head away, seeking a focal point on the tapestry gifted her from the Dornish vipers. The three great wyrms were entwined, coiling together on the field of a blue sky. Her eyes followed the lines of their knotted necks, looking to find a way through the maze. It was subtle, but Tyrion knew she used the exercise to slow her thoughts when it was necessary to be careful.

Finally, she spoke. "They should have been on the wall."

Tyrion's scoff escaped him before he could swallow it. Daenerys' eyes snapped back to him.

"I beg pardon, your grace. As you well know, my humor is oft ill-timed."

"Or just ill, Lord Hand."

He nodded ruefully. "Just so. But, they had already foresworn the Wall for the gallows."

"Then why were they given _another_ choice?"

Tyrion waited. He let several breaths pass as he gathered himself. It was just the two of them in the small council chamber - excepting the Queensgard, of course. Still. Resting his forearm on the table, he leaned in and lowered his voice. 

"My Queen, the wounds caused by my family to Westoros will not heal for generations. The abuse they visited on the Lady Warden began when she was just two and ten years. She still bears the horrors they wrought. The loss of the traitors' lives was done to place the first stitch that will close that deep cut. It will bind her directly to you, as a personal loyalty." What he left unsaid was..."not just through Jon."

Daenerys gave the slightest inclination of her head.

"We have been told of her history." Her violet eyes were guarded, but Tyrion knew her well. Yes, Sansa was central in securing alliances throughout the realms. But Daenerys saw more clearly than most - into the souls of men and the hearts of women.

"Ser Jorah once told me of a time when you were separated from your children. They were little more than hatchlings, he said."

"Yes."

"You were a woman grown by that time - a Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. You became strong with Khal Drogo, you had blood riders and a khalasar behind you, and Ser Jorah, too."

"Hmmm."

"You found your children and served retribution to the magicians who had dared to separate them from you. The Lady Stark lost her wolf at the petty whim of a child tyrant, the evil issue of a wretched cunt. They manipulated her, beheaded her father, destroyed her mother and brothers, and she was sought for regicide, as was I - from the _same lie_. That pain has been untended even to this day, and it all began on the King's Road. I would see her restored in this small way, even as it cost the lives of men...men who, I must declare, were _already_ dead."

He knew he had her when her mouth softened and she lowered her eyes. This is why he loved her with undying loyalty. It was the tenderness that would keep her fair...and sane.

She released a sigh of resignation. "As you will, Tyrion."

"Thank you, your grace."

"Did the little one survive?"

He smiled, and leaned back in his chair, secure again. "Just," he said, nodding.

"Will you take over its care?" she said, returning his smile with warmth.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

The Queen's smile broadened. "You have many responsibilities. Will you have time?"

"Would _you_  have trusted such a job to another?" 

"No, my Lord Hand. I would not have done."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title excerpted from Rudyard Kipling's "The Law for the Wolves."


	3. When Thy Whiskers Are Grown

"Nēdenka! Here! To me!"

She was barely five months old, and already at his chest. He had never encountered an animal as intelligent as she, save for the three great wyrms. And with her thick coat an soft ears, "little" Denka was much more pleasant to sit with in the bitter cold of the night.

They had spent almost two of those months traveling with a small detachment of guards along the King's Road toward Winterfell. If the weather held they would arrive in three days. The road had been nearly deserted during most of the journey. Afterall, what mad man would travel 500 leagues once winter had come?

He would. Mad? Stupid, maybe. But the time was short. Denka needed to be with her Mistress.

Perhaps something of the prophetic dreams of the Targeryan's had begun to infect him. Tyrion was certain down to his short, twisted bones that Sansa needed protection. Armed men were at her command. She was housed in one of the oldest and most ingeniously engineered castles in all of the realms. Not _his_ protection - as either a man or as the Hand. No. But rather...a - an armor, a personal _shield_. It wasn't a shield from arrows or swords. No. More of a - a - Blast! He didn't know, precisely. But still he _knew_. He just...knew.

Denka trotted up, her breath puffing a cloud around her muzzle. It had settled as a frost in the fur of her head, with ice crystals dusting the black tips of her ears white again. She had the coloring of her mother, from what Tyrion could recall. She nuzzled his hand, looking for a treat.

"Fine, you cheeky beggar!" He reached into his pocket and drew out a chunk of carrot. It was markedly strange. Denka was absolutely a carnivore, but she loved to chew on the fibrous tubers, shredding them with her teeth before finally snarfing them down. They often left an orange tint on the sensitive hairs around the sides of her mouth. He had brought several pounds of them along, and would leave them with her at Winterfell.

Though he was well familiar with Ghost - and had been threatened once by Robb's sidekick, he'd only seen the other Stark siblings' direwolves once, all those years ago, when he'd traveled this path with his sister and brother, and the long dead Robert Baratheon.

He had slapped Joffrey, and paid to bed several "professionals," borne the scorn of Catelyn Stark, and looked in on her son as he hovered near death. There had been a feast, and then the long journey to the Wall where he had first told a young man named Jon Snow to never forget he was a bastard, to use that weakness as an armor against a world that would be never kind to either of them.

For all his attempts, he could not recall Sansa from that visit. It was baffling to him, because he knew that even as a child she had been striking. She had the perfect bone structure of her father with the glorious halo of fiery hair she inherited from the Tullys. He had seen her wolf - Lady, Jon reminded him - at play with the others: Ghost, Grey Wind, Summer, Shaggy Dog, and...Nymeria, Nēdenka's mother. But, he didn't remember seeing Sansa Stark. Not then.

Tyrion held open the flap of his tent and motioned Denka inside. Though he could have had access to all the wealth from court, it held little attraction to him now. Just as he'd left behind the excesses of wine and sex, he needed...less. The tent held a bedding pile of plush furs, and several trunks. It was no larger than the tents of the soldiers, and was arranged in kind with their's near the camp's central fire pit.

Denka jumped with seeming delight into the furs, turned around three times, and settled down with her carrot. Tyrion moved to sit near her in the radius of her heat. He scratched her head while she snuffled at her carrot. She smelled of the woods and the wind, and as the frost in her fur began to melt...a strong hint of wet dog. After flipping the last bit of treat into the air and catching it to swallow, the direwolf looked up at him. He could almost hear her question: "What will you tell me about her tonight?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is an excerpt from "The Law for the Wolves" by Rudyard Kipling. 
> 
> "Nēdenka" means "fierce" in Valyrian.


	4. Pack-right is the Right of the Meanest

And so Tyrion began, telling her the story he had come to know:

"Her name was Sansa, her house was Stark, and she loved ballads of honorable knights and courtly manners. She was good at all the things ladies should be good at: etiquette, stitching, managing the pantry, even flattery. She prayed in the Gods' Wood as she should, and kept her hair and dresses in perfect order. Because, you see sweet Denka, that is what she had always been told to do. And good girls are rewarded for doing what they are told.

One day when she was two and ten, her father's friend who was the King came to visit. The King had many knights on fine horses, he had a beautiful wife as his queen, and he had a son with flaxen hair who was thought handsome. Sansa stood with her brothers and sisters to watch them arrive. The Prince smiled at her and the sun shone off the golden threads in his tunic. Before the visit ended, she had been promised to the Prince and they were engaged. The King asked her father to go to the Palace for work, and Sansa was very excited because she would get to go, too!

Now, Denka, it's important that you know this next part. Sansa had a special friend, a creature that was her constant companion and protector. It was a direwolf, like you. It was a present from her father, and Sansa named her Lady. Sansa took care of Lady every day, and Lady took care of Sansa right back. They went everywhere together, and they loved each other very much. Sansa even got to bring Lady with her to the Palace of the King.

They traveled on the same road we have been on. Lady got to run beside the horses, as long as she didn't get too wild. She also got to play with her sister, who was named Nymeria. Nymeria was the companion of Sansa's sister, Arya. Nymeria was wilder than Lady just like Arya was wilder than Sansa. But Lady and Nymeria still sang together under the moon when it was full.

One day, Sansa went for a walk with the flaxen-haired Prince, and they met Arya and Nymeria by the river. This is when the story becomes very sad, and it is important for you to understand, because what happened next is the start of your story, Denka.

Arya was playing with one of the servant boys, pretending that their sticks were swords. The Prince wanted to show off for Sansa because he thought he was important. Unfortunately, the Prince was not as nice as Sansa had thought. His pretty face hid an angry and cruel heart. The Prince challenged the servant boy to a fight, but Arya stopped him. You see, the servant had only a stick, but the Prince had a real sword, shiny and sharp. The Prince would have hurt the servant, maybe even killed him. Arya struck the prince with her stick, and when his face exploded with rage and he raised his sword to cut her, brave Nymeria attacked! Nymeria protected Arya as she always did. The Prince dropped his sword and Arya threw it in the river.

Sansa cried when this happened. She cried because she was scared for the Prince. She cried because she didn't like fighting. And she cried because she was worried that the Prince would no longer like her because of what Arya and Nymeria had done.

What Sansa didn't know was that she would cry bitter tears for many, many days to come.

So angry and cruel was the Prince that he told the King and Queen a lie, that Nymeria had attacked him for no reason. Arya made Nymeria run away even though they didn't want to be apart. And so your mother was left to find her own way in the woods.

Sansa didn't know it, but the Queen was just as angry and cruel as her son. When she found out that Nymeria was gone the Queen did a horrible thing. The Queen ordered that Lady should be killed instead. Sansa begged and begged for Lady to be spared. But the Queen would not change her mind. Lady was killed. She was buried at Sansa's home in Winterfell, where we will be very soon.

Sansa was heartbroken. Her best friend in all the world was dead, and the Prince who she had cared for was angry with her and her family. Although she didn't know it then, the Prince would treat Sansa just as cruelly and unjustly as the Queen had treated Lady.

But, something important did happen. Sansa learned a lesson that she would never forget. No matter how good your manners, or how neat your dresses, winter is always coming, and a girl needs to be just as crafty and sometimes just as wild as a direwolf in order to survive."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title excerpted from Rudyard Kipling's "The Law for the Wolves."


	5. Drink Deeply, but Never too Deep

Sansa had been at the Coronation celebration. As Wardeness of the North, and cousin to Jon, it was absolutely necessary. She had come by ship to make the journey faster. No less daunting, however, as the sea in winter had a wicked temper. The Drowned god, Tyrion mused, was moody.

His duties and hers kept them engrossed for all their waking hours. He had noticed, though.

She was painfully beautiful.

Her hair had deepened in color, and it set her skin in even higher contrast than he remembered. Where her teenage self had been willowy, she had gained sensuous curves even while she remained slim. During their few conversations, her eyes were intense and almost more grey than blue. She was still a very young woman, but her brow bore lines of pain and worry. It was a hard thing to see, but not unexpected. She had been friendly, and willing to talk, but hardly personal. And he noted ruefully that she had grown even taller.

At the feast they had sat on opposite ends of the dias, both in places of honor. They had not exchanged a word about the last time they had done so. Before that celebration he had last seen her rising from her seat at Joffrey's wedding, moving to leave just before Tyrion had been called back...and the gross lie had begun.

They had not spoken about her flight, or his trial, her suffering or his, her fight back to herself or his adoption into the line of dragons.

Her stories he had gleaned from Jon and Varys. She had first been a rabble in the Game of Thrones, then a light horse, and finally, now, a trebuchet. She had mastered deception and even manipulation, though she was never foolhardy enough to risk herself as an elephant would. Hers was a strategy of feint and clever movement in limited trajectory. Much of her life she had been constrained nearly to stillness, but she transcended those limits to master what moves she had. It was she who had won the Battle of Bastards against the filth that bore the now-dead banner of the flayed man. She had remained, ever, of House Stark.

She wore a grey gown exquisitely embroidered in silver thread to the banquet. Her hair was in the Northern style, the only noble woman to have it so. The willful gesture had made him smile.

Tyrion saw the way she watched Ghost wistfully as the direwolf lounged by Jon's side. And he also caught the fleeting pain when she turned away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title excerpted from Rudyard Kipling's "The Law for the Wolves."


	6. Ye Must Fight Him Alone and Afar

Tyrion's first memory of her was on Joffrey's name day. Had he been another man, a smaller man, he would have executed her immediately upon his arrival at King's Landing. She was a valuable hostage, that was sure enough. But, he'd been The Hand by that time, with _carte blanche_ to bring the capital and all in it to heel. He could have spun it to his father as necessary to humble Joffrey. Tywin's shriveled, black heart would have beat despite itself at returning a blow to Catelyn Stark for her attempt to soil the Lannister name - though not on Tyrion's behalf, it was true.

With a sweeping glance he had recognized the gaping emptiness that was a Stark without her wolf. It had only taken one fleeting moment of contact with Sansa's veiled eyes, however, to know that he could not harm her. Ever.

She was alone, with noone in the world left who could protect her. The shield she should have had with her, the completion of her heart and soul was not beside her. Her family name was now more a shroud than a cloak. She was a slip of a girl, not yet flowered, and she was set against the most powerful family in the most terrifying city on the continent. Her hair had been wrestled into knots as unnatural as the game of thrones itself, and her dress hung on her as on a skeleton.

But, Tyrion _wasn't_ a small man, and as often as he wished his heart was a dead as his father's, it would never be. As he had told Jon, he had a tender spot for broken things.

He would not find out until later, through idle conversation while watching Joffrey's new fool, Ser Dauntos, that his assessment of Sansa had been...incomplete. Perhaps she had been merely crippled by her wound, not broken. She had managed to save the man's life - though it's quality was questionable - and her own, and gotten Joffrey to believe it was his own choosing.

Perhaps, then... _not_ broken.

When Tyrion plucked the slug, Janos Slynt, from the city watch and packed him off to the wall, he was protecting himself. It was but one step in the extermination of the worst parasites from the diseased carcass of the palace. It was a sweet side effect that at least one of those who had betrayed her to her tormentors was freezing his sack off. If only Baelish had been as stupid as Paecel. Tyrion might have effected the future to save her such horrible suffering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title excerpted from Rudyard Kipling's "The Law for the Wolves."


	7. The Lair of the Wolf is His Refuge

The wind had risen on the afternoon as they approached Winterfell, and when the castle came into view the wolf-sigiled banners whipped and snapped. The smell of snow was again in the air, and he was grateful to have made the keep before it flew. This far north they might not be able to depart again for a fortnight, and better to be in the halls surrounded by the flowing water of hot springs to keep them warm.

The watch hailed them as they came close, and the captain of Tyrion's guard motioned for his second to raise the banner and declare them. The three-headed dragon flew above, and then below the smaller flag that bore his mark as Hand of the Queen. Denka was nearly vibrating with excitement, her nosed lifted skyward, huffing to take in all the smells she could. Her tail wriggled, and Tyrion smiled at the puppy she remained. She stayed right at his side, sitting just ahead of his right stirrup as they awaited the opening of the gates.

* * *

Once within, the party was greeted by the Maester. He was a much younger man than Luwin had been, though still adorned with an impressive array of chains showing his mastery of lore and craft.

The man was obviously nervous, and Tyrion could see the Maester plucking anxiously at his robes while the company dismounted.

"My - my Lord Hand. I am Maester Vobrin of the Citadel, servant of Winterfell and the Lady Sansa, Wardeness of the North. On behalf of House Stark, we welcome the envoy of our Queen, her Grace Daenerys of House Targaryan, first of her name, Mother of Dragons, and Protector of the Realms. Please allow our master of stable to tend to your mounts."

Quite well said for a young maester.

"Thank you, Maester Vobrin. We are grateful for your gracious welcome, and Daenerys Stormborn, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains and Khaleesi of the great grass sea, Queen of the Andals and the First Men commends House Stark for its strength and loyalty to the crown. We have been traveling these long past months, and with the blessings of the old gods and the new, we have had safe passage and winter has not overcome us."

As Tyrion spoke, the Maester noticed Denka. His eyes grew wide and his mouth dropped open, though he recovered himself quickly. Tyrion did not hide his smile. Had this servant of the Citadel ever seen the true face of the Stark crest? 

"I know that we have come upon you unawares, and I offer my apologies that we did not send word ahead. The Queen thought it best to keep our travel discrete, even though it would cause inconvenience to the Lady Warden. As proof of our sincere regret, we have brought provision and gratuity to strengthen Winterfell against the long winter ahead." He made eye contact with the guard captain again, and he motioned four of the men forward. Each pair bore a chest, which they set out before the Maester.

"We are blessed by the kindness of her Grace. The Lady Sansa is overseeing preparations for your proper welcome. May I show you and your escort to the great hall? There you can warm yourselves at the hearth, and take food and drink to recover you from your ride."

"That is most generous, and I know I speak for all our company when I say, thank the Seven for strong ale on a cold day!" There were murmurs of agreement from his men, and the Maester nearly smiled.

"Will you - ah, that is - will your...canine companion require accommodation in our kennels?"

"Thank you, but no. Nēdenka is trained well, and I would she were with me."

"As you command, My Lord Hand. Please, follow me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title excerpted from Rudyard Kipling's "The Law for the Wolves."
> 
> "Nēdenka" means "fierce" in Valyrian.


	8. Where He Has Made Him a Home

They had arrived late in the day, and with little time left before the evening meal, the kitchens had simply brought out steins of nutty ale and loaves of freshly baked bread, with promises of more to come very soon. The cook - who refused Tyrion’s attempt to address her as something other than “Cook” – had bustled around them, laying down plates and dishes, muttering all the while about “thin ninnies” and snow. He thought he heard the word “apples” in there somewhere, and it made him even hungrier. The men of his escort were clearly pleased to be within stout walls after such a long journey, and there were broad smiles and back-slapping as they thawed fully for the first time in weeks.

Denka was bouncing about the room, sniffing everyone and everything. She was incredibly careful, never approaching someone who showed the least hesitation, never getting underfoot or nosing where she shouldn’t. The most amazing thing to Tyrion was that she kept an eye on him. He couldn’t be sure if she were watching to see if he disapproved, or if she was nervous and wanted to know where to find him, or if she was curious to see if he was going to explore as well. In any case, he felt love for her rise in his chest.

It would be hard to leave the pup. At least, he _hoped_ he would be leaving her.

The families of the great houses rarely dined with the domestics and the guard on a daily basis. During his last visit to Winterfell, the Starks had been more integrated with their garrison than most – certainly more magnanimous than the Lannisters ever were. Still, he doubted he would have a chance to encounter Sansa before the morning when she began to see visitors who had petition for the Wardeness of the North.

As Tyrion broke off another hunk from the still-warm loaf in front of him, he noted that the host of Winterfell had begun to drift in to prepare for the meal. The din had risen, and the guards who had hailed their entry moved up to speak to the newcomers properly. As the hall filled, Denka had returned to his feet. Her ears, eyes, and nose were still working hard to experience it all, but she sensed that it was time to reign in her enthusiasm.

The reaction of the Stark household to Denka was a pleasure to watch. People seemed uncertain if they were seeing what they thought they were seeing. There were amusing double-takes, and quite a lot of staring. At least it was directed at the direwolf this day, not just at the imp of Westeros. He was glad to see that most of the whispers seemed to accompany ghosted smiles exchanged between those gathered. He “tsk’d” to Denka and dropped the last chunk of his bread to her. If a direwolf could smile, he knew she would be.

He blamed the din and the bustle and the sweet eyes of his friend for the way he jumped with surprise at the touch that Vobrin laid on his elbow.

“Careful, there!” Tyrion gasped, laughing in response to his own surprise. “I’m only half a man! My heart may not take the shock!”

Vobrin looked flummoxed, unsure if he should laugh with the dwarf or cower from The Hand.

“Worry not, my fine Maester. I was just engaged with,” Tyrion gestured wide to take in the room, “all… this. It has been long since we were in such good company.” He gave the young man a friendly grin.

“Ah, well, yes. Qu- quite the, ah, menagerie we are, my Lord. I, ah, that is, my Lady Stark has asked if you would care to join her for the evening meal? Your things have been brought to your quarters. Lady Stark has arranged for a bath to be drawn for you, and a servant to assist with whatever you need.”

Beneath him he felt Denka shift, and he knew she was looking at him expectantly. As he glanced down and caught her eye, the oversized pup shook out her ears and then took a long blink at him. Her tail kicked up its wagging a notch, if such were possible. For his part, Tyrion’s heart was suddenly pounding hard. He was unprepared! What would he say? How could he explain? Whatwouldshelook likhowwouldsheact _wouldshebehappytoseehimwouldshebemad_ \- It was as all too –

“My Lord Hand? Can - can I tell the Lady Stark that you will join her?”

“Ahem, yes. Yes, Maester Vobrin, I would appreciate that. Thank you.”

The younger man looked relieved. “And your…companion?”

“She will stay with me, if you please. Come, Denka!” Why was he worried? _Get it together, man!_ he chastised himself. This was exactly why he had come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title excerpted from Rudyard Kipling's "The Law for the Wolves."
> 
> Denka is short for "Nēdenka," which means "fierce" in Valyrian.


	9. It May Be Fair Words Shall Prevail

It was a gift to feel so clean again after all the months of travel. Tyrion knew that his choice to keep with the longer-haired, bearded version of himself was not in line with the southern tradition of his youth, nor with that of the Dragon Queen. But the North preferred its people protected from the wind and ice.

He had brought one doublet suited for formal occasions and he wore it a bit stiffly as he was lead to Sansa’s private chambers. Denka followed at his side, subdued but watchful. Reaching over, Tyrion gave her a small rub at the base of each ear, and she turned her nose just slightly to him. He would miss her.

There were few lamps to light the hallways, so the one carried by his escort revealed most of what Tyrion was able to discern. Sturdy, careful construction. Little masonry artifice or embellishment, but as his bath had confirmed, the real artistry of Winterfell lay behind the stone blocks of the walls, a series of pipes and circulating mechanisms that allowed the stronghold to weather the harshest and longest of winters. Some of the walls, those Tyrion guessed had an outside exposure, were covered with thick tapestry to provide additional insulation. They passed too quickly for him to get a careful look at the scenes depicted.

They stopped before a door and his escort knocked, pushing it open as a murmur sounded from within. Tyrion turned to Denka and motioned for her to stay just outside, then thanked the servant who was turning to leave.

It was time.

A table had been set before the hearth in the room. There was a low screen blocking off most of the space, a gesture to protect to his hostess’ privacy. Sansa stood next to the chair closest to the door. Her auburn hair was braided simply, and the end fell across her shoulder. The firelight caught its edges and turned them golden. She wore a plain but elegant gown with wide sleeves designed to allow her to unobtrusively warm her hands within them. At her neck was the modified scarf common in the fashions of the North to ward against the chill. The deep blue complemented her eyes and pale skin.

It nearly robbed him of his breath. She was dazzling.

“My Lord Hand,” Sansa said, moving forward and offering her hand to him. The curtsy she performed was ever so subtly lower than usual, so that she tilted her head just under the top of his. That was a masterful bit of ceremony, the effortlessness of her movement and her choice to do it were not lost on him. He also found it…kind.

“Wardeness. I bring greetings from Queen Daenerys and, of course, from Jon. Each wishes that they could have been here in person to see Winterfell, and you.” Tyrion gave the slightest tip up of his hand, and Sansa rose again. Keeping hold of her, he brought the tips of her knuckles to his lips. This provoked the slightest smile from her as she reclaimed it.

“I want to thank you for inviting me to join you this evening. I admit, I hadn’t expected to see you until the morrow. We came upon you of a sudden, and I do apologize for the lack of notice.”

“Hmm. Yes. Well, I suppose the greatest hardship was finding room for the elaborate gifts you brought us.” Sansa’s small got slightly larger and just a hint mischievous, a side of her that Tyrion liked very much and had not seen often enough. “I hope that you will tell both Jon and Daenerys that I miss them very much. And Varys?”

“Oh, you can never tell with that crafty bastard. He could be near death and never let a shadow cross that shiny brow.” Sansa’s smile became full at that. Maybe she would laugh this evening. That would be a pleasure.

“I would agree with that, my lord.”

“Tyrion, please. I know that I’m allowed the titles,” he sighed, “but I can’t say I enjoy them. Would you indulge me?”

 And a soft lilt lifted her voice – an almost-laugh! – as she replied, “If you insist, Tyrion, I will do as you ask. Will ‘Sansa’ suit for you as well?”

 “Yes, thank the old gods and the new! Perhaps we can talk more like…old friends than…politicians this night.”

 Before he realized what was happening, Sansa had reached out and taken his hand, giving it a small squeeze of familiarity. “I would like that,” she said, and this time the smile was gentle and genuine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title excerpted from Rudyard Kipling's "The Law for the Wolves."


End file.
